


Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A bachelor party. And other stuff.





	Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Halrloprillalar

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, by Halrloprillalar  
Category: R, M/M slash.  
Spoilers: Season four.  
Summary: Mulder/Skinner. A bachelor party. And other stuff.  
Note: A year and a half later and this is my first real M/Sk. I guess I was working up to it.  
Note 2: This fic contains less than 2% song lyrics by volume.  
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me. Further acknowledgements at end.  
Thanks to: Mik & Jay for bachelor party tales, and double thanks to Jay for reading this over for me. And to Sergeeva for discussing it endlessly with me.  
May 1999

* * *

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes  
by Halrloprillalar

"Guys, if you're going to smoke, please go out on the balcony." Skinner tossed the admonition over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen, hoping they'd hear him above the music. Lining up dead soldiers in a cardboard box, he took a moment to enjoy the temporary solitude. Then someone wandered in looking for more chip dip. Well, his not to make reply, his not to reason why, his but to find the dip, put out a few more bowls, and make sure there was enough beer in the tub.

Dodging back through the living room, he turned the stereo down a notch, laughed for the third time at Linnestad's latest lewd joke, handed out some coasters, and, finally, grabbed a beer for himself. No free chairs, but he found an empty corner and leaned back, scanning the room for collateral damage.

"Good party." Mulder appeared, lounging against the wall and holding a beer bottle.

"You sound surprised."

"Not really. I should have expected you'd pull this off with your customary efficiency."

"That and the Bitchin' Bachelor Parties article in this month's Martha Stewart Living. It's too bad I didn't have time to handcraft the party favours."

Mulder smiled. "I would have figured you for more of a Hints from Heloise man, myself." He took a pull at his drink. "So, what does Martha recommend for a truly bitchin' party?"

"Beer."

"Just beer?"

"Beer, loud music, greasy food, beer, pornography, wildflower centrepieces, and more beer." To illustrate the point, Skinner took a few swallows.

"Conaway seems to be enjoying himself." Mulder nodded at the groom, who sat on the couch in the middle of a knot of laughing, gesturing men. The hilarity was probably enhanced by the tequila Conaway was putting back.

"Martha doesn't recommend tequila. It doesn't go well with pizza."

"That's the difference between Martha and Heloise. Martha tells you which beer labels will coordinate best with your Shaker chairs and braided rag rugs. Heloise tells you how to clean vomit out of your couch cushions."

Skinner winced. "Don't tempt fate. Nobody's going to vomit on the furniture." He hoped.

"How else would you know the party was a success?" Mulder propped himself on one elbow, turning toward Skinner. "Scientific studies have proven the more testosterone a man has, the more he pukes. Scully told me."

"Simple gifts. How proud I am to be a man." Skinner took another drink. "So, is this where we try to one-up each other with stories of how shitfaced we got and how sick we were the next day?"

"I'm sure we could find something more novel to be competitive about." Mulder smirked a little. "Who's been beaten up the most by women, who has the most interesting scars, who does the best needlepoint."

"I did a lovely cross-stitch of dogs playing poker."

"Fifty bucks says my embroidered Elvis tea towel would take your dogs at any county fair."

"You're on, Mulder." Skinner reached out and clinked his bottle against Mulder's. "I make kick-ass rhubarb preserves too." They smiled at each other and Skinner began to relax a little.

"What I was really wondering, though, is how you came to host this party." Mulder paused. "If you don't mind me saying so, it doesn't really seem like your kind of thing."

Before Skinner could answer, Hancock wedged himself in between them, grabbing Skinner's shoulder. "This is a fucking good party, Walt." Skinner couldn't help the trace of a grimace at "Walt." "God, I'm half-pissed already. Hey, Mulder, did I tell you about the last bachelor party I went to? I drank fourteen beers and then when the stripper came in I threw up on her shoes and they had to give her an extra fifty before she'd stay and while they were sweet talking her, the groom spewed under a couch cushion and then put it back." He began to laugh so hard he had trouble getting his story out. "...and the host...went on vacation...the next day and didn't...didn't...find it until he came back in a week!" Hancock punched Mulder in the arm.

Mulder raised his eyebrows at Skinner and mouthed "Heloise" at him. Then he slugged Hancock back and laughed genially. "That's nothing, Hancock. When Walt here" --Skinner glared-- "got married, he drank so much that he was still drunk at the church the next day. He puked all over the minister just as he was pronouncing them man and wife."

"No shit, Walt?"

"No shit, Hancock." Behind the man's head, Skinner mouthed "fuck you" back at Mulder, who blew him a kiss. Then Hancock started to talk about an upcoming Knicks game and Mulder became much more animated.

Skinner turned away from the conversation and looked back out into the room, not really seeing it. Fuck you, Mulder, he thought. Not for telling outrageous lies about him, but for making him think about something he'd been carefully suppressing. Sharon.

Dammit, couldn't he keep on suppressing it for another four hours or so? Good marriage, bad marriage, divorce, death: it was beautiful and natural, wasn't it? Just like guilt. Just like loneliness. He drank the rest of his beer, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply until the guilt was adjusted back to normal background levels. Within acceptable limits.

A smack on his shoulder brought him back to the room. Hancock. "Say, Walt, I need to see a man about a dog."

"Through there," he pointed, "to your left." Hancock stumbled off and made it through the hall.

Skinner felt another hand on his shoulder. Mulder again. "So, Walt, where were we?"

"Call me Walt one more time and I'll kick your ass, Mulder."

Mulder studied him speculatively. "I think I could take you."

Smartass. "I always knew you had a death wish."

"OK, two out of three, at least: needlework, preserves, and brawling."

Skinner couldn't help the grin. "The new Ironman?"

"Stainless steel maybe."

Quinn walked by and waved to Mulder. "Ten minutes, Miss Lee."

"OK, be right there."

Oh no, Skinner told himself, the hell they did. "What's up?"

"Hmm?" Mulder looked up. "The entertainment."

"Tell me there isn't going to be a girl. I thought you brought tapes."

"Conaway's fiancee made it very clear that under no circumstances were we to hire a stripper."

Skinner exhaled. "That's a relief."

Mulder handed Skinner his empty beer bottle and pulled a small flask from his back pocket. He took several large swallows, screwing up his face a little. "But I work for free." Handing the flask to Skinner too, he headed off on the same route as Hancock.

Oh fuck, oh damn, oh hell and blood. Mulder was at the best of times one of those things in heaven and earth, Horatio, but this was wondrous strange. Angels and ministers of grace defend us, Skinner thought. Whatever was about to happen, it was inevitable. No sense in trying to stop it. He got another beer to cushion the blow. As he crossed through the knots of people, threads of conversation caught around him.

"--all over me, so I pulled her around the corner--"

"--now that they've got Flutie from the CFL--"

"--had the perp covered--"

"--oh, no, you don't--"

"--drinking shooters all night--"

"--fucked her up against the wall--"

"--Bills have finally got a chance--"

"--up against the wall and spread 'em--"

"--eat me just like the story says--"

"--threw up against the wall--"

Back in his spot, Skinner leaned up against the wall and downed half the bottle. From his vantage point, he could see a bottle shoved back under the couch, a glass barely visible on his bookcase, cigarette butts in the rubber plant's soil, and chips, chips, chips ground into the carpet. Saturday morning would be very busy.

The throbbing music suddenly stopped and conversation was loud for an instant. Quinn shouted for quiet, then started some decidedly different music. Someone appeared in the hallway.

Mulder. Expected. Mulder in drag. Not unsuspected. Mulder in drag as Marilyn Monroe. Fuck.

Skinner watched him shimmy into the room. Blonde hair--an expensive wig, it looked so real--styled just so, red lipstick shining on full lips. Was he wearing false eyelashes? No, probably just mascara. Expertly, Mulder lip-synched to Marilyn's throaty voice.

A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,  
But diamonds are a girl's best friend.

He held out one hand, elegantly gloved past the elbow in pink satin. Nieves obligingly bent to kiss it, but Mulder pulled it away.

A kiss may be grand but it won't pay the rental  
On your humble flat, or help you at the automat.

He moved with surprising sensuality, working his strapless gown, the same pink satin as the gloves, letting the long slit fall open to show a stockinged thigh. Dammit, how did he do that? Mulder didn't look like some drunken idiot in his wife's makeup, he didn't look like a drag queen, he didn't look like anything except Marilyn. He looked good.

Men grow cold as girls grow old,  
And we all lose our charms in the end.  
But square-cut or pear-shaped,  
These rocks don't lose their shape.  
Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

He'd even shaved his armpits. Skinner couldn't tell about his legs. Rhinestones glittered around Mulder's neck and swung gleaming at his earlobes. Did clip-ons like that hurt? They looked heavy.

Mulder worked his way around the hooting, cheering room. Whatever foundation garments he was wearing gave him a noticeable cleavage and he used it to advantage, somehow managing to avoid the clutching hands of the drunker guests. He danced closer now, playing up with the song, but never quite over the top.

There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer,  
But diamonds are a girl's best friend.

Closer and closer. No, he wouldn't, would he?

Mulder stepped in front of Skinner, leaned in dizzyingly near, bright hazel eyes, whisky breath, and a beauty mark nor'nor'east of his mouth. Cool gloves slid over Skinner's hot cheeks, catching slightly on the faint evening stubble.

There may come a time when a hard-boiled employer  
Thinks you're awful nice...

The lipstick was bleeding a little into the fine lines around Mulder's mouth. Probably Heloise had a hint about that. Probably Martha said red lipstick didn't go with a pink dress. Then a strong hand pushed Skinner's head back and the gloves fell away.

But get that ice or else no dice.

Bastard. Gracefully, Mulder moved away and Skinner felt stale air rushing in to fill the vacuum.

He's your guy when stocks are high,  
But beware when they start to descend.

Much hilarity ensued at the double entendre and almost drowned out the next couple of lines.

It's then that those louses go back to their spouses.  
Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

Skinner drank his beer, but it might as well have been water. Something stronger, harsher, something serious was what he needed, but he knew if he opened his liquor cabinet these men would drink him out of house and home. He remembered Mulder's flask. Opening it, he took a few swallows. Glenfiddich. Good stuff. Stuff that should be savoured, sitting down with a good book and a roaring fire. Instead, he had to lean against the wall and watch Mulder. Mulder and Marilyn, louses and spouses, conspiracies and tragic deaths. And whisky. Can't tell the players without a program. He took another pull at the flask before screwing the top on and shoving it into his pocket.

Mulder circled the rest of the room, his choreography nearly perfect. Skinner found it mesmerising, enthralling. A waking dream, sure to be, what other explanation could there be except that maybe he'd had more to drink than he'd thought. A bleary, beery, whisky dream, a fever dream.

His hand reached up an instant before he saw something flashing through the air at him. It slithered through his fingers and he only just managed to hold onto the end of it. Mulder's necklace. He looked up. Mulder's finale. Skinner exhaled with relief. At least the necklace was all Mulder had taken off.

Cheering and applause washed through the room, but instead of dying down, it surged when a different song began. Steady beat, eighties synth sound...oh shit. The beat moved Mulder, rolled through his shoulders and hips. The beat pinned Skinner to the wall, staring as Mulder loosened his left glove, finger by slow finger.

There's things that you guess  
And things that you know.

The glove slid down Mulder's arm and he tossed it into the admiring crowd before starting in on the other one.

There's boys you can trust  
And girls that you don't.

Skinner tipped what beer there was left in the bottle down his throat. He'd need it. While he'd anticipated a lot of things from this evening, a lot of drunken rowdy things, Mulder, as Marilyn, stripping to George Michael wasn't one of them. He felt annoyed by it. Then he felt annoyed that he felt annoyed. Then he felt stupid. Then he wondered if Scully knew about this side of Mulder and he began to laugh.

During this self-analysis, Skinner lost a few moments and when he turned back to the action, Mulder was rolling a stocking down his thigh and over his calf. Skinner noted that he had not, in fact, made the supreme sacrifice. Mulder wasn't especially hirsute anyhow. Not that Skinner had ever thought about that before.

Watching the men drinking, hooting, slapping each other on the back, he thought this could be any of a score of bachelor parties he'd been to over the years, could have been his own. They were all the same--booze and boorishness and strippers and porn. Spilled food and lewd jokes and delight in the incivility of it all. A sort of male Bacchanalia. And please don't tell our wives what we were up to.

Been there, done that, got the beer stains on my t-shirt and this could have been any one of those nights, except for Mulder. Except for Mulder shimmering in lipstick and rhinestones. Except for Mulder shimmering out of pink satin and white lace until he was down to black silk boxers and the blonde wig. Things go weirder with Mulder.

Pulling Conaway to his feet, Mulder danced with him, their bodies so close it looked more intimate than touching. Conaway moved with a surprisingly graceful lurch, rather like a lava lamp. Mulder moved with him, swaying to the heavy beat. No, he really didn't have much body hair, did he, Skinner mused. Just a dusting across the top of his chest, down his arms and long, long legs.

George stuttered to a close and Mulder pushed Conaway back to be caught by his friends before heading for the hallway. As he passed by, Skinner got a whiff of perspiration. Who knew being a female impersonator was such sweaty work? Mulder got through the crowd with minimal mauling and Skinner kept a careful eye to make sure no one followed him except Quinn, carrying an armful of evening gown and stockings.

The music stayed off and the TV went on. Conaway, now wearing Mulder's discarded bra, was manhandled into the best seat while someone slid a tape into the VCR. Skinner found a place near the back on a not-very-comfortable couch he'd pulled out of a spare room for the occasion.

Men were still milling around as the movie started, finding seats, getting food and beer. After a few minutes, someone sat down on the other end of the couch. Mulder. Dressed normally. With that damned wig. Skinner stared. "Why are you still wearing that?"

Mulder smirked. "Blondes have more fun. Didn't you see 'Earth Girls Are Easy'?"

"Is that the one with Elvis and Angela Lansbury?"

"Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis. Close enough."

Skinner paused before speaking. "You know, Mulder, just when I thought nothing you did would ever surprise me again..."

"Did I mention I can juggle?"

"At least I won't have to worry about you starving if you get tossed out of the FBI."

"Don't you mean when?"

"You know, I might have an undercover assignment for you."

"No way, no how. I only work with aliens."

"And if they were cross-dressers, how would we know?"

"Exactly." Mulder smiled and turned back to the TV. Suddenly, Skinner realised that he was holding something. He opened his hand. The necklace. He held it out, shaking it a little so Mulder would notice. He did. "For me? I've got to warn you, Walt, I don't put out for rhinestones."

"Shut up, Mulder, or I'll shove those rhinestones where the sun doesn't shine."

Mulder fluttered his eyelashes. "I just love finding new places to wear diamonds."

Skinner realised that he was never going to get the last word, so he might as well not try. He started to watch the video but before he could pick up the nuances of the plot, someone thumped down on the couch between them. Hancock, in a cloud of beer breath that was probably in violation of the Geneva Conventions. Narrowly avoiding the bottle that almost grazed his cheek, Skinner wondered how he could get Hancock to remove the friendly arm slung over his shoulders without coming right out and asking. Skinner sat up very straight. The bottle bumped against his ear and the arm stayed. He slouched down low. The bottle pounded on his shoulder in time with the action on the screen. He pondered leaning forward, but he'd probably just end up with Hancock's arm around his waist and that would be less than pleasant.

Just as he was considering drastic measures, the arm snaked away, not even bashing him in the head with the bottle. On the screen, a buoyant brunette and a silicone blonde tasted each other's delights in a steamy hot tub. Pretty standard male fantasy, he thought. Women so horny they have to get each other off, but only if there isn't a man around. And right on cue, there was the man, sliding in between the squealing girls and starting to give them what they wanted, the bitches. How boring.

Hancock didn't seem to think so. "Some nice ass, eh, Walt?" The arm didn't return, but Skinner did get an elbow in the ribs. "Too bad you don't have tits like that, Blondie." Hopefully, all Mulder was getting was the elbow as well. "Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Boston and I met these two girls in a bar? Not as pretty as you, Blondie, but some fine tail all the same. So, there we were in my hotel room and my partner--"

Skinner had had enough. Enough Hancock and enough hooting and enough dreary adult video to last him for the next ten years. Abandoning the couch, he collected an armful of glasses and plates and headed to the relative quiet of the kitchen. On the way, he ran into Quinn.

"Hi, sir. Seen Mulder?"

"There. You can't miss him." Skinner nodded. "Maybe you can pry Hancock away from him. And tell him to take off that damned wig."

Quinn smiled. "Will do." He balanced another plate on top of Skinner's precarious pile and walked over to the couch, insinuating himself between the men and turning to talk to Mulder. Skinner realised he was just standing and galvanised himself to leave the room.

Loading the dishwasher, Skinner found his mood improving as the mess diminished. By the time he had the machine running and the counters wiped off, he was merely a little cranky. He poured some ginger ale into what was probably the last clean glass and hoisted himself onto the counter to drink it. Leaning his head back on a cabinet door, he caught sight of the clock. 12:13. With any luck, he could get everyone out the door by 2 AM. And they were all going, if he had to pay the cab fare himself.

The drone of the dishwasher was mesmerising, swish-swish-swishing him into a state of mind where the noise in the other room seemed to come from very far away. Closing his eyes, he watched the play of light and shadows swish-swishing behind his eyelids while the ginger ale warmed in his hand. Swish-swish and he thought of nothing, not the party, not the clean-up, not his job, just swish-swish nothing. Deliberate nothing, long strokes of a brush spreading clean white paint over a wall, swish-swish smoothing out a white sheet...

Someone had just come into the room. Skinner opened his eyes. Surprise. Mulder came over and leaned against the counter. At least the wig was gone. Skinner drank his ginger ale. "Norma Jean."

"Martha." Mulder nodded.

Skinner flinched. "I'm not sure if that's better or worse than 'Walt'."

"You not in the mood for 'Beach Blanket Bimbos'?"

"Not with a crowd."

"I can leave the tapes." Mulder grinned.

"That's OK. If you don't mind me saying so, they're not really very interesting."

"Oh, if there's a specialty you have in mind, I can probably help you out. These are just standard stuff I keep around for this kind of occasion."

"The Harlequin romances of the adult video world?"

"Exactly. So if you're looking for something with more depth..."

Skinner shifted a little on the counter. "Why the vast collection?"

Shrugging, Mulder slouched onto his elbows. "It's just a hobby. While you're tearing off a game of golf, I'm watching 'Dallas Does Hattie.' It's not like my job lends itself to taking pottery classes on Tuesday nights."

"You're right." Skinner didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing. Neither did Mulder for a bit and the break in conversation was just a little awkward.

Skinner looked closely at Mulder. The wig was gone, the lipstick and mascara too, but something was still not quite right, something...ah. Leaning over, Skinner ripped off a paper towel and dampened it under the tap.

"So, I was asking you before," Mulder began.

"Come here a minute."

Mulder shot him an odd look, then unkinked himself languidly and took the few steps across the kitchen. Reaching out, Skinner took Mulder's chin in one hand. The skin was smooth, he must have shaved just before he came over, and Skinner felt the jaw muscles twitch. Then, carefully, he dabbed the beauty mark off of Mulder's cheek. Dropping his hands, he realised that this was probably something he should have thought about before doing. "Sorry, it was bothering me."

Another look from Mulder, now resting one elbow on the counter top. "At least you didn't use your spit like my mother."

"Mine too." Skinner teased apart the wet paper, pulling it into tidy shreds.

"Ivory soap--pure as mother's spit."

Skinner laughed and wadded the wet strips together. Aiming carefully, he shot the ball across the room and into the open garbage can.

"The man has game." Mulder smiled and Skinner's unease lessened. "You look like the kind of man who would own a tube of Krazy Glue."

"Probably. What for?"

Mulder fished in his pocket, producing his necklace and a loose rhinestone. "This thing cost me fifteen bucks."

Rummaging in a drawer, Skinner found the glue. "Grab some newspaper from the recycling box. Is that how much Cracker Jack you had to eat to collect all the parts?"

"Froot Loops. Do you have toothpicks?"

Skinner handed some over. "Do you want me to glue that for you?"

"You think you can drink and glue better than I can?" Mulder bent over the counter and squeezed a bit of the goop into the empty socket. "I got a Cub Scout badge for gluing."

"And you were drinking at the time?" Skinner watched skeptically but Mulder set the loose stone in perfectly.

"About a gallon of Cherry Coke. And my hands didn't even shake." He straightened. "Where can I put this?"

Skinner cast his eye over the room, clean now, but not for long. "On top of the fridge."

Carefully, Mulder slid the newspaper up top, then leaned back against the refrigerator door. "Ow." He straightened up immediately. "They say you can tell a lot about a man by his refrigerator magnets. For instance, this huge clip that almost severed my spinal cord shows that you like things tidy and organised."

"You had to look at my fridge to find that out?"

"There's more." Mulder studied the door for a few moments. "A grocery list with baking soda on it. You're a down to earth kind of guy, someone who likes homemade things--"

"Mulder, the baking soda is for refrigerator odours."

"--and dislikes funny smells. Am I right?"

Refusing to answer, Skinner finished his ginger ale.

"Here we have a Domino's Pizza magnet but without a menu under it. So, you order pizza a lot but you always get the same thing."

"That magnet came with the pizza I got for tonight."

Unfazed, Mulder continued. "And last but not least, a Hello from Hawaii magnet holding up a picture of a smiling couple."

"My cousin."

"So, I predict that you will take a journey over water and meet a tall dark stranger." Mulder came back over to lean on the counter next to Skinner. "I can't tell any more without reading your palm."

"Is this how you profiled all those criminals?"

"Sometimes." Mulder grinned.

Skinner realised with a jolt that Mulder did probably know a lot about him and even more now that he'd had the evening to look around his home. He didn't really like the idea.

"So," Mulder continued, "do you want to know what the future holds for you?"

"If you can foretell the future, explain why you spend so much time in the hospital."

"You can't tell your own fortune. Well known fact."

"Is this something else you got a Scout badge for?"

"No, we did Tarot but I never got the hang of it."

Quinn came into the room. "Hey, Mulder, where's the next tape?"

"I left it by the TV. Isn't it there?"

"Can't find it."

Mulder didn't say anything to Skinner, just looked at him, before rolling upright and heading out of the room, Quinn's hand on his shoulder. Skinner closed his eyes again, trying to find his way back to the zone of white noise and no thoughts. But the swish-swish wasn't there. Instead, the dishwasher churned out a chugga-chugga-thump that made him think it was about time to get it serviced. Sliding off the counter, he wrote himself a note and stuck it under the Domino's magnet.

He ran a hand along the counter top. No more work to be done for now, no excuse to hide out in the kitchen. He spun out a trip to the bathroom for a good five minutes and that pretty much exhausted his options. Taking a moment to steel himself, he made a measured entrance into the living room. The men had shuffled around a bit, the movie was a little different, but the sounds and energy were just the same. Plus ca change. There was Nieves beside Hancock on the couch. And an empty seat, but no thanks. Scanning the room, Skinner saw Mulder and Quinn, sitting on the floor with their knees up and their backs against the wall. Quinn leaned over and whispered something to Mulder and they both laughed.

Skinner turned his eyes, if not his attention, to the screen and stood in the back of the room, arms crossed and leaning first on one hip, then the other, as the flick played. His back would pay for that later, but it seemed the lesser of a number of evils. Just when he thought his iron frame would give out anyway and he'd have to take the couch, the last cum shot rang out and the movie ended.

Someone flicked the lights on. Men began to mill about the room again and Skinner realised, too late, that he should have cleared away the food and drink before this. But the more sober of them seemed to clue in, milling in a more purposeful fashion, collecting in little knots, buzzing about bars and wives and hangover cures. Nieves was still upright so Skinner stopped him. "Would you find out how many cabs we need to call?"

"Sure thing." Nieves waded back into the crowd and moved from knot to knot in a seemingly random way. Drunkard's walk, thought Skinner, and smiled a little. But Nieves would get the job done. And fast. Skinner was just making his way to carry out some of the snacks when Nieves took him by the shoulder.

"I think eight cabs should do it. I'll call. And I'll make sure no one's left standing on the curb. Where's the phone?"

Skinner pointed it out. "Thanks. I'll haul out the coats."

"Oh, by the way, I managed to part Hancock from his car keys. I'll get him home." A smile and he went to use the phone, covering his ear as he talked loudly over the noise.

Outerwear was heaped on the bed in the spare room. Grabbing a large armful, Skinner wondered how many people would actually end up with their own jackets. He carried them out and started to spread them over the couch and dining room chairs.

"I would have thought you'd make people hand in a claim ticket for those."

Mulder again. "I didn't have time to read the sidebar on ten tips for getting drunken party guests back into their clothes, sorry." Something white was stuffed behind a sofa cushion and Skinner pulled it out. The bra. He held it out. "At least yours are easy to identify."

Taking it, Mulder draped it over his shoulder. "If Scully finds out you gave me lingerie, you'll have to marry me."

Skinner glared and went back for a second trip, Mulder tagging along. There were still too many coats for one armload so Skinner picked up as many as he could. Mulder watched, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Whose jacket pocket should we stuff this into?" Taking the bra into his hands, he twisted and crushed it. "Which one is Hancock's?"

Skinner's first impulse was to disapprove, but fuck that. Hancock was an obnoxious jerk. "I think...this one." A brown suede jacket, in the middle of his stack. "Did any of that blonde hair fall out of your wig?"

Pulling the jacket out carefully, Mulder grinned. "You're agreeing to complicity in a prank against a federal agent?" He tucked the brassiere into an inside pocket. "You're just doing this because you know no-one believes anything I say, so no blame will attach to you in any case."

"Brilliant as always."

Smoothing the suede, Mulder headed to the door.

"Mulder."

He turned. "Changed your mind?"

"Help me carry the rest of the coats."

"Sorry." Mulder picked up the rest of the pile and they went back out. He dumped most of his load in a heap on a chair, but solicitously bundled Hancock into his jacket.

Trying to be everywhere at once, Skinner helped men find their coats and other paraphernalia, pointed out the bathroom, shook hands, and had his back slapped. He explained to Hancock that Nieves had his keys and would see that he got home, but wasn't really sure Hancock quite clued in. Turning away, he walked right into a big, friendly hug from a big, friendly, and only vaguely upright Conaway. Skinner patted his back and tried to disengage himself.

"C'mon with us," Conaway slurred loudly. "Gonna get tattoos." He hung by his arm from Skinner's shoulder, clutching a jacket Skinner hoped belonged to him. Trying to get him into it proved difficult, like a rope-and-beads puzzle that looked blindingly obvious until you got to the last twist and found that you'd only made things worse.

"Need a hand?" Mulder-on-the-spot.

"Please." Skinner passed over the coat. Between the two of them, they bundled Conaway up and draped him over the shoulders of the best man.

"Thanks, Mulder. Was that all according to Heloise?"

"Actually, Heloise recommends not letting guests get so drunk in the first place."

"Smart woman."

"And how about Martha? 'Send your guests home with barf bags to match the candle and dried flower party favours. Put it under your pillow and you'll dream of--'"

Someone grabbed Skinner and asked him a question, drowning out Mulder. As he answered, he saw Quinn join Mulder, heard him offer to split a cab. One less thing to worry about. Caught up in a maelstrom of farewells, he felt almost dizzy by the time the last trench coat had swirled out the door. The storm metaphor was apt, he thought, looking at the havoc the party had left in its wake. Get to work now, man, he admonished. You'll sleep better.

"Looks like we're still in Kansas, judging by the debris."

It only surprised Skinner that he wasn't more surprised. "Mulder, what the hell are you still doing here? I'll call you a cab."

"I thought you wanted my help."

Skinner tried to read the look on Mulder's face and failed. So he decided to treat it as "deliberately annoying" until he had reason to believe otherwise. "I asked you for help, you helped me, and then the party ended. Go home."

Mulder seemed to be shading his expression towards "slightly hurt and confused." "Come on, it will take you a couple of hours to clean up. I'll pick up trash and carry dishes in."

While protocol demanded that Skinner keep arguing, he simply didn't have the energy. "Fine, Mulder. Trash bags are under the sink." Surprise flickered in Mulder's eyes for a moment. Chalk one up for Skinner. But it would be good to get the mess cleared away.

"Talk about your stale party odours. All that's missing from this Eau de Men is a pile of sweaty gym socks."

"Unless you know some sort of miracle method for freshening the air, just open the windows, Norma Jean."

"Not without baking soda and you're all out." Mulder went to get the windows. Maybe he wasn't so annoying after all.

In the kitchen, Skinner emptied the dishwasher, handing a plastic bag to Mulder when he brought in the first load of plates and glasses.

"I'll split my tips with you." Mulder dropped some coins and they clattered on the counter top. "I wonder how much change the average man loses from his pockets in a year."

"Are you looking behind the couch cushions or was all that just lying on the floor?"

"Cushions. Don't want you to have any unpleasant surprises." And he was out again.

Staring at the cabinets, Skinner thought he'd already had enough surprises for one night. A lack of something prickled at his palate, not strong enough to be a craving or a need, but still a want. Coffee. What the hell, he wouldn't sleep for hours yet anyhow. While it brewed, he loaded the dishwasher again, carried in the remains of the food, watched Mulder picking up garbage and dishes with desultory grace. They traded quips and sidestepped each other in the doorway until the trash was bagged, the bottles and cans boxed, the dishes swish-swishing, and most of the flat surfaces wiped down.

"Many hands make light work." Mulder indicated the tidy room. "The carpet's still pretty bad, though."

"I'll vacuum tomorrow. Coffee?"

"Thanks. Cream, no sugar."

"I don't have cream. Will whole milk do?"

"You're talking to a field agent. I can drink anything, even non-dairy creamer and Folger's Crystals."

"This won't be quite that unspeakable. C'mon and doctor it yourself. I ran out of lace doilies at about midnight."

The aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, overlaying the lingering party smells. Skinner took down some mugs and poured out. Mulder looked closely at his. "Plain blue--can't tell very much. But yours--Hawaii again. That strengthens the earlier prediction and also indicates you need a vacation."

"I'm with you on the vacation." Skinner pulled the milk out from behind some wrapped bowls of chip dip and handed it to Mulder.

"I could have gotten that myself."

"It was less bother than having you do a Freudian analysis of the contents of my fridge."

Mulder looked surprised. "Me? No, I wouldn't have done that."

"Sure."

"I'm not a Freudian."

A chuckle rumbled its way out of Skinner, in spite of himself. "I'm not taking any chances."

"I'm not looking. Your secrets are safe." Mulder deliberately turned his back as Skinner replaced the milk.

"Living room. I have to sit down." The living room was chilly with the fresh night breeze. Steam rose and streamed off of the coffee. "Is it too cold, Mulder?"

"Hmm...no. It's a nice change." Mulder sat down on the big leather couch, in front of the jumble of items spread out on the coffee table. "Come see the swag."

Grabbing some coasters, Skinner joined him. "You found all this stuff?"

"Two keys, three combs, a fuzzy breath mint, $3.27 in change, an onyx cufflink, a dry cleaning claim ticket, and a Barbie POG."

"The cufflink is mine. I've been meaning to look harder for it." Skinner nodded his thanks. "But did you have to save that breath mint?"

"How will we learn anything if we treat valuable evidence as garbage?"

"What were you hoping to learn that you didn't already know?"

Mulder just shrugged and sipped. "Good coffee, Martha."

"Thanks, Norma Jean." Skinner paused. "I was wondering...why Marilyn?"

Shifting on the couch to face Skinner, Mulder raised his eyebrows. "You don't mean 'why drag?'"

"That might be more than I want to know."

"Just a college party trick I turned out to be really good at, actually."

"I believe you, Mulder."

"I can't tell that for sure without checking your refrigerator." Both hands laced around his mug, he was silent a moment. "But Marilyn. Well, partly because she's Marilyn. I'm sure I don't have to play 'Candle in the Wind' for you or anything." He looked at Skinner, waiting for a reply. Skinner nodded, wondering a little at this shift from levity. "So, that, and...have you ever read her files? Not that there's much uncensored. But it was us. We surveilled her, spied on her, we killed her."

"Mulder, you don't--"

Holding up one hand, Mulder cut Skinner off. "No, I'm not trying to convince you that the FBI actually murdered her. I mean, I have my theories, but that's not what I'm talking about." He stopped to drink his coffee, staring over the rim of the cup and past Skinner's shoulder. Skinner wondered what he saw. "Regardless, we killed her. We the Bureau. We the people. I like to remember." He twisted his mouth ruefully. "And I look good as a blonde."

There wasn't anything to say, so Skinner didn't say it, just wondered how he'd merited this strange confession. He knew a lot about Mulder, what he believed in, what he worked for, what he cared about. But this--well, Mulder hadn't said all that much, really, but yet, it felt oddly like he'd bared a small corner of his soul. More oddly still, Skinner was glad. Glad? Yes, but he hoped he wasn't expected to reciprocate. A sudden spark of memory interrupted him and he seized at the chance to derail his train of thought. "I almost forgot--I still have your flask." He tugged it out of his back pocket, a little difficult while sitting down, and held it out. "I owe you a drink. I had a few swallows earlier."

Taking it, Mulder smiled. "S'ok. I don't drink much. But I needed a little courage to get through the act."

"So did I."

Mulder looked delighted. "If I'd known before what it would take to break you..."

"You're saying you want that assignment after all?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of causing a disturbance in your office. When's your birthday?"

"Never mind."

Setting down his mug, Mulder looked at Skinner for a moment. "I've been trying to ask you all night. Why did you host this party in the first place? It doesn't really seem like you at all."

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Skinner shrugged a little. "Went to get a glass of water one day at work, ran into Meyer and Nieves. Meyer didn't have space for the party, Nieves asked me, I'd just given Meyer a difficult and unpleasant assignment." He swallowed the last of the coffee. "I said I'd think about it and next thing I knew, the date was booked. Sorry it's not more interesting."

"At least I know you're human now."

Skinner smiled a little but didn't speak. The mess was cleared up, the coffee was finished, and the cold was seeping into his bones. He looked around the room, then turned back to Mulder. "I didn't thank you for helping me clean up."

"Didn't you?"

Dammit, Mulder was difficult. "So, thanks."

"I guess I should call a cab." Mulder didn't move.

"Do you want me to call?" Lazy bastard. "I'll do it."

"No, I can." They both stood. Skinner took a step towards the phone and something rolled beneath his foot, a bottle? He pitched forward, and something rolled under his clutching hands, Mulder's arms. Skinner found himself upright again, feeling the bunch and flex of muscle under his fingers and the hard grip on his own upper arms. "Sorry," Mulder said, voice low. "I missed that one."

Skinner stood outside himself for a long frozen moment, seeing them close together, eyes locked, remembered the long cool slide of gloves over his burning face, the hardness of a jaw beneath his fingers, felt a click and shift. Something surfaced from the murk of his psyche--desire. Pure and simple.

Climbing back inside, he wondered how long they'd been standing there. His heart hammered, like a bird slamming frantically against a window. Desire, tawdry and complex. Better let go, man, let go now. He was, he was letting go, loosening his grip, really, tensing to step back.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?" Mulder said.

What the hell, Skinner thought, and kissed him. He was kissing Mulder and it was like drinking that first beer at fourteen, not anything like he'd thought it would be and twice as intoxicating because he wasn't supposed to have it. He was kissing Mulder and Mulder was kissing him back. His eyes were closed and the night air blew around him and suddenly he realised that he was kissing Mulder.

Damn fool. He pulled back, let go, stepped away. Damn, stupid, fucking fool. What the hell was he suppose to say now? "I was out of line." He swallowed. "Take your best shot and then get out of here."

"No." Mulder stepped in again. "Why should Conaway be the only one to get drunk and do something stupid?"

He couldn't look at Mulder. "I'm not drunk."

"Neither am I." This time Mulder's fingers found his jaw and turned it back. This time Mulder leaned in and kissed him. This time it was a Cuba Libre, sweet and dark with rum, heat pooling in his belly, giving the lie to his claims of sobriety. Mulder's hands slid over his shoulders, his back, never still, and his own hands followed suit. The friction of the cotton warmed his palms, the strength of the mouth against his own pulled all the blood from his brain. When his fingers touched the soft hair at the back of Mulder's neck, he realised how long it had been since he'd had someone in his arms.

He gave in then, let his body tell him what to do. Pulling off his glasses, he tossed them onto the coffee table. They sank back down to the couch, sitting awkwardly and moving, always moving. Skinner's hands touched Mulder's arms, his sides, his thighs. Mulder's hands held Skinner's face and Skinner drank down the kiss, the smooth burn of whisky and water over his palate. A little courage. A little warmth against the cold. Eat, drink, and be merry.

Someone changed their centre of gravity--Skinner wondered if it was him--and they toppled over to tangle side by side on the inadequate length of the couch. Skinner's leg was between Mulder's thighs and his arm was trapped beneath Mulder's body. Mulder's mouth was on his neck, hard and devouring. They pressed close together, Skinner's free hand sliding along Mulder's spine, top to bottom to top. He was drunk now, drunk on every shooter, every pint, every glass of Christmas sherry he'd ever had. Cheap red wine, applejack, straight vodka, so far behind the veils of reason, so inebriated with distilled desire that he couldn't even begin to care about the hangover of regret he'd have in the morning.

With one fierce tug, Skinner found his way inside Mulder's shirt and the skin was warm to the touch. His cock was stirring, thickening, announcing itself. Skinner pressed his lips to Mulder's temple, soft skin and fine hair, kissed his cheek, rougher silk than before, caught his whisky sour mouth and slid his tongue inside. Mulder's cock was a hard urge against his thigh, Mulder's fingers a skilled persuasion on his shirt buttons. He's your guy when stocks are high. Skinner shifted to let Mulder pull his shirt open and Mulder shifted to let Skinner kiss his throat. Skinner felt himself slipping, sliding, falling dizzily, so lost in touch and smell and taste that it wasn't until the breath thudded out of his lungs that he realised they really had fallen off the couch.

Mulder was on top. Heavy, open eyed, amused. "You OK?"

"I'm fine, Mulder. You?"

"Just so long as this isn't the part where you change your mind and tell me we can't do this." His breath warmed Skinner's face. "Is it?"

Closing his eyes, Skinner thought for a moment. All the cons were far away, the pros insistently close. He shook his head, then looked at Mulder. "No, I'm with you." His back finally managed to get his attention. "But let's take this to the bedroom."

Rolling off, Mulder sat, back against the couch, and pulled Skinner up and into another long kiss. Giddy champagne, bubbles rising. They stroked each other wherever they could reach. Hello, said Skinner's back. Not now, said the rest of him. Now, said the back, and meant it. Skinner broke the kiss and they stood. A small sliver of reality spiked his memory. "Mulder, you have condoms, right?"

"You don't?"

"No. You're telling me you don't? Whatever happened to 'Be Prepared'?"

Mulder's shoulders sagged. "I washed out of Boy Scouts. The Cub Scout motto is 'Do Your Best.' I thought you'd have them."

Unbelievable. "You came here to seduce me and you don't even have condoms?"

"I did *not* come here on purpose to seduce you. It just happened." Skinner dropped back down onto the couch, stone cold sober with half an erection. Mulder remained standing. "Can't we do without?"

Yes, urged Skinner's body, even his back, but his mind had the veto. "Not now. Not for a one-night."

Eyes a little wild, Mulder said, "I could go out."

"There's nothing close."

Sitting back down, Mulder rubbed his fingers over his mouth. "If you douche with Coca-Cola, you won't get pregnant."

"There's none left."

"Fuck. I should have checked Hancock's pockets before he left."

"You did plan this."

Mulder looked away. "No. I just thought..."

"Don't stop." Skinner heard the acid in his voice and didn't care. "I want to know just what you thought this would get you."

"What it would get me?" Mulder turned back and he had that look, that melange of stubbornness, insanity, and despair that Skinner had seen a few times before. "I thought it would get me a few hours of good sex. I thought it would get me a few hours of human companionship. Don't you ever want that?"

Skinner said nothing and wondered which look he had. Cold and heavy, probably, like granite.

"Don't you? Don't you ever just want a body in your bed?"

The words stung Skinner's face like Mulder had slapped him.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry." Standing again, Mulder paced away and then back again. "But that's exactly what I mean. I don't dare start a relationship. Or even pick anybody up. I can't put anybody in that situation." His eyes locked on Skinner's. "And neither can you."

Scully turn you down? Skinner wondered, but managed not to say it aloud. "So you thought...me and you..."

"Yeah. If they wanted either of us out of the FBI, we'd be out by now. If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead. This can't put us in any more danger."

"You sure about that?"

"No."

"My God, Mulder, that's one hell of a pickup line." They stared at each other, teetering together, unsure of which way they'd fall.

"It very rarely works." One corner of Mulder's mouth went up. So did one of Skinner's. "You should have let me look in the refrigerator."

Too much. Skinner started to laugh. Mulder looked shocked, then relieved. "Mulder, next time just bring rubbers, OK?"

"Next time?" Sliding onto the couch, Mulder leaned in hopefully. "There's a next time?"

There'd better be, Skinner thought. Maybe it wasn't too late for the all-night drugstore run. He checked his watch. 3:30. It was too late. "Yeah." Oh, he shouldn't, but he put his hands on Mulder's face and took one more kiss. "Next time." Mulder tried to pull him into more, but he let go and sat back.

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow-today or tomorrow-tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow-today. You going to the wedding?"

Skinner grimaced and nodded.

"OK, we'll go together. I can pick you up." Mulder paused. "Successfully, this time."

"And what's your motto, Norma Jean?"

"Be Prepared. And do a good deed every day." Mulder grinned, then frowned. "I should go then."

Skinner performed a quick risk analysis. "It's really late. You can crash here if you want. I've got a spare room, or there's the couch if you prefer."

"This isn't your way of saying 'no means yes,' is it?"

"It is not." Putting his glasses back on, Skinner treated Mulder to a scaled-down version of his baleful glare. "Crash or cab?"

"Crash. Thanks. I'll just take the couch."

"I'll get you some bedding." Standing, Skinner stretched a little. "Need anything to wear?"

"No, I'm fine. So long as I can close the windows."

Skinner nodded and headed out. Stripping the blankets off the spare room bed, he tried to wonder what the hell he was doing, but he was just too sleepy now. Grabbing the pillows, he hauled the load out to the living room. All but one window were closed and that only open an inch. Mulder was sitting in a chair, taking off his shoes. Tempting, tempting. Skinner had already given in so much already. What was one more evil? Dumping his armful, he winged a pillow at Mulder and caught him upside the head.

Mulder stared. Like it surprised him more that Skinner would play with him than that he'd make out with him. Score two. Skinner grinned. "Sleep tight, Mulder."

"You too, Skinner."

"'Walter' is OK, too. Just not--"

"Walt. I know." Mulder stood, squeezing the pillow with both hands. Skinner turned and headed upstairs, just dodging the missile.

In bed at last, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for the room to spin him into sleep. The bed seemed too big and he stretched out, trying to cover as much of it as possible. Limbs loose, mind looser, he could feel Mulder's body against him still, warm against the cool sheets. Next time. He closed his eyes, there was Sharon and they were standing up to be married, and Mulder was the best man. You may kiss the bride, the minister said, but Sharon handed Skinner her bouquet and turned to Mulder. Skinner stood there, smelling apple blossoms, watching Mulder kiss his wife, and the minister grabbed his ass but it was Scully and he opened his eyes. It was morning.

Ten-thirty. Late, but not late enough. Padding downstairs in his robe and bare feet, Skinner felt the lack of sleep aching in his joints. In the living room, the blankets were heaped on the couch, but Mulder wasn't there. Maybe he'd already gone. The thought gave Skinner a twist of regret and relief. But there was Mulder in the kitchen, perched on the counter and drinking a glass of orange juice. "Morning," he mumbled around the glass. Skinner nodded and got the filters out of the cupboard.

"Coffee, Mulder?"

"No, I've got to go." Mulder tipped the last of the juice down his throat and slid off the counter. "Pick you up at three. Wear something black and sexy."

Skinner grimaced. When he had the coffee on, he followed Mulder out to the door. A trill sent them both instinctively reaching for phones. Mulder pulled out his cell. "Mulder." He winced. "Scully, I'm just on my way...You know how it is, bachelor party, things get interesting, Candy and Ginger--no, Candy, not now, I'm on the phone..." Skinner raised one eyebrow and Mulder shrugged. "Jeez, Scully, you act like I've never stood you up before...Scully?" He put the phone away. "Scully says hi."

"I'll see you then."

"I left my outfit in your guest room--I'll get it later, OK?" Mulder had one hand on the doorknob when he turned. "Is this a really stupid idea?"

Skinner almost laughed. "Yes. But compared to other things we've both done, it's fucking brilliant."

"You're right. Anyway, I had a good look in your refrigerator before you got up."

"What did you learn?"

"Tell you later." And the door closed behind him. Skinner stood for a moment, staring after him, before the coffee called him away.

In the kitchen, the linoleum was cold under his feet. He wrapped his fingers around the mug and looked out the window in time to see Mulder getting into a taxi. Stupid, yeah, idiotic. But who the fuck cared? He caught sight of Mulder's glass on the counter. Some OJ would hit the spot. On the fridge door, he noticed an addition to his shopping list: "Get that ice, or else no dice." Skinner smiled and pulled out the juice carton. It was empty.

Bastard.

F I N I S

Marilyn Monroe was on an X-Files episode. Do you know which one?

"Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" by Jule Styne & Leo Robin  
"I Want your Sex" by George Michael, at least as far as I could determine.  
Some lines here and there from "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" (gee whiz -- Fox owns that too!) -- writing credits Joseph Fields (play), Charles Lederer, Anita Loos, (novel) (play)

Feedback? You can email me at .


End file.
